


Just A J, Really

by TheNoctambulist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley keeps a diary, Crowley's Middle Name, Fluff, How Do I Tag, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners, Ineffable Romance, Just a J, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), but like borderline smut but not really, crowley's apartment, good omens one shot, im just an innocent virgin don't @ me, ineffable boyfriends, the ineffables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24244696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNoctambulist/pseuds/TheNoctambulist
Summary: Aziraphale pops by Crowley's apartment and he isn't there. Upon further investigation, Aziraphale discovers a journal that might hold the answers to the question he's been seeking... what is Crowley's middle name? He isn't prepared, however, for what he does find.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 114





	Just A J, Really

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick question before we begin. Do people prefer having a longer work (like over 1k words) broken up into chapters or is it fine to have it all in one big section like this? Because it technically is one scene, but if people prefer to have it broken up, I can do that too. I guess... just answer in the comments, if you want. Thanks!
> 
> (The only thing that got me through writing this was Queen's "Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy" playing constantly in the background. I think Crowley would be proud.)

“Crowley? Are you in there?” Aziraphale knocked three times on the apartment door. “I know it’s a bit of a surprise, but I thought I’d just stop by.” He waited for an answer, but none came. 

“I-- I brought biscuits!” he added. After being faced with another minute of silence, he tried the knob. To his surprise, it turned easily, and soon he was staring at the minimally furnished, completely quiet abode of his friend.

“Crowley?” he called again, still expecting an answer. He wandered down the hall, through a verdant sea of various potted plants. He glanced into the adjacent rooms at the end of the corridor; both were empty. He set the biscuit tin he had brought on the nearest table and wandered into the kitchen. Crowley wasn’t there.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well then,” he said to no one in particular. He exited the kitchen and returned to the main room. A large flat screen TV was hung on the wall, perpendicular to a sketch of the Mona Lisa. A large throne-like chair was positioned slightly away from a grand desk, as if someone had just gotten up. Soft afternoon light filtered through the blinds opposite the desk. Aziraphale inhaled deeply. It smelled faintly of paint, rain, and wood. 

Aziraphale decided he better check all the rooms, just to make sure Crowley hadn’t fallen asleep or was too far to hear him. He turned on his heel and went back to the area with the plants. They seemed to sway in his presence. He fingered a waxy leaf and smiled to himself. This was his first time in Crowley’s apartment, and he never would have guessed the demon would keep plants. 

There was another doorway across from him; a quick peek revealed that it was Crowley’s bedroom. A large, dark wooden bed with sharp corners was centered in the room, laden with various throw pillows with exotic patterns. Dark curtains twirled in the breeze coming from the window. A dresser was across from the foot of the bed, and there was another desk right under the window. 

Aziraphale wavered at the threshold. He wasn’t sure whether Crowley would appreciate his snooping. But really, was it snooping? The door _had_ been left open, after all. He could hardly blame himself for Crowley’s carelessness. Besides, what did Crowley have to hide?

He entered cautiously, stepping lightly on the cool floor. The walls were charcoal grey. He made his way over to the desk, smiling as he approached. Upon it was a stack of papers, underneath a snake paperweight he recognized as one _he_ had given Crowley after seeing it in a shop downtown. The papers underneath it were half filled in memos to be sent to hell. Aziraphale clicked his tongue, dismayed at Crowley’s sloppiness. 

His eyes traveled over the desk’s surface until they landed on a journal. It was sleek and black and looked well-used. The edges of the pages were rough, as if various clippings and papers had been shoved haphazardly into it. It was obviously something private.

Aziraphale felt his hand gravitate towards it. He wanted to know what was inside, but wasn’t sure how Crowley would feel if he knew he had read it. There wasn’t really any particular thing he was looking for anyways. He was an angel. He could tell wrong from right, and this was most certainly wrong. 

Though, he supposed, there was one thing he had always wanted to know. 

Ever since the forties, when Crowley had adopted his alias, Aziraphale had wanted to know what the ‘J’ stood for as his middle name. When he asked the first time, Crowley had shrugged and claimed it was ‘just a J.’ Aziraphale was still convinced it stood for something, and had the inexplicable urge to know what it was. It wasn’t that he needed it for any particular reason, or was going to use it; he was just tired of not knowing and felt that, maybe, one day, it could come in handy. 

His heart sped up in anxiety as he reached for the book. He felt as if he were stealing something, though he wasn’t planning on taking anything except information. 

He turned open the cover. Written, on the inside, in a dark, loopy script, was _property of Anthony J. Crowley_. Aziraphale huffed. He had thought that that would have been the place to find the answer to his query, but Crowley had unknowingly made it more difficult than that. 

Then again, people didn’t normally write about their middle names in journals. Why would they? But, Aziraphale convinced himself, Crowley was not exactly a normal person. (And he needed a good reason to justify looking through the journal.) 

The first page contained illegible thoughts and random mutterings, penned with what looked like a quill. It was dated a good many centuries before Crowley had adopted his human-esque name. 

Knowing he wouldn’t find the information he wanted, Aziraphale began to fan through the pages, only stopping when he caught sight of his name.

The page that referred to him was from 1793. Racking his brains, he recalled their meeting in the Bastille and the crepes they had afterwards. 

He turned back to the journal and started to read. 

_Dined with Aziraphale today. That idiot, he got himself stuck in the_ **_Bastille_** _. Seemed grateful when I rescued him, though. And his smile is so perfect as he eats. I told him I was in the area, and he seemed to believe it. No need for him to know I’d been dropping by without him knowing to see how he was doing._

With that, Aziraphale’s heart leapt. Crowley had been… checking on him? He continued reading. 

_The job demands it, after all._

Aziraphale’s face fell. Of course. Part of the job. Crowley was watching him on hell’s orders and nothing more. 

_Still, it gives a good excuse for me to see him. I might load off a couple temptings on him, tell him it’s payment for his rescue._

Aziraphale huffed. Crowley had indeed done that after his rescue. He had sauntered by the bookshop a year later claiming he ‘owed him one.’ Frustrated, he flipped through more pages until he got to the ones just before he learned of Crowley’s name.

 _Apparently Angel’s been doing some shady business with some Nazis_ , Crowley had stated at the top of the page. _I’ve been asking around and it seems some of the operatives here are planning on scamming him out of books. I’ve narrowed down their meeting places, and from what my sources have gathered, they’re meeting in a church. It’s just my luck they’re meeting on_ ** _consecrated_** _ground. Why couldn’t they do it at a bleeding park or something? Az probably thinks no one would double-cross him in a_ ** _church_** _. Still, I wonder if I could get some holy water there? I honestly don’t know why I’m doing this. I haven’t_ ** _really_** _forgiven him for the whole “refusing to give me holy water” ordeal. Worst part about it was that he said he didn’t_ ** _need_** _me. Oh, to be one of the ducks on the pond that day, wading about, eating bugs… sounds like the ideal life to me. I bet_ ** _they_** _don’t have to deal with_ ** _insufferable_** _angels._

“Well, really!” Aziraphale said indignantly, not realizing he had spoken aloud. No one was there to hear him, anyways. 

_I wonder if he’ll ask me to lunch again_. _Maybe if I get him drunk enough he’ll bless some water for me._

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He couldn’t help but be annoyed by Crowley, despite him being the one looking through private thoughts. He turned a few more pages. There was another entry a couple days after.

 _We didn’t have lunch_ was the first sentence. _I would have hoped, but no. He_ **_did_ ** _allow me to chauffer him back to his shop, though. That’s something._

_He ALSO learned about the name I’ve taken to using lately. I always thought it was sharp, but the look he had when he first heard it? I could tell he hated it. Maybe I should change it. I don’t know. I just think ‘Anthony J. Crowley’ sounds so nice, you know? I suppose I haven’t even thought about what the J stands for. He asked about that, you know. Maybe I should come up with something._

_Here it is_ , thought Aziraphale. He could find what he’d been looking for, and then he could wait for Crowley in the sitting room. No need to let him know he’d been reading his journal.

_Anyways, I saved his books. He looked pretty pleased. I hope I didn’t let on how pleased I was, too._

Aziraphale frowned. He was so disappointed on the change of subject he didn’t completely register the subject it had transitioned to. Upon a quick scan of the rest of the entry, nothing else about his middle name appeared. 

A little pissed off, Aziraphale aggressively flipped through the journal and slammed it gently back on the table, dejected. He massaged the bridge of his nose and hmmphed, looking back at the journal. It had fallen open to a wrinkled page, obviously one that had been visited many times before. It had places where the ink had run, suggesting the writer had been either crying or messily sipping water while penning out the entry. 

Aziraphale pulled the journal towards him and eagerly began to read. 

_Dammit, Angel. Damn it all. Too fast for_ **_him_** _. Too_ **_bloody_ ** _fast. What the heaven is that supposed to mean, anyways? I’m sorry our relationship doesn’t have a speedometer,_ **_Angel_** _. If you can call it a relationship. It feels pretty one sided, with you constantly reminding us “oh, we’re not friends.” You idiot._

 _No. No,_ **_I’m_ ** _the idiot. I’m the idiot who couldn’t help himself. Who always asked the wrong questions. Who always wanted what I couldn’t have. I didn’t mean to become a demon. And I didn’t mean to fall in_ **_love_ ** _with you, Angel._

Aziraphale’s heart beat faster and faster. Love? Crowley? He felt the instant need to take a break and keep reading all at once. He decided with the latter.

 _Damn. I guess it’s true, innit? I do love you. Ach. It feels wrong to even write. I think it’s love, at least. Who knows if demons **can** even _ _love_ _?_

Aziraphale touched his heart and gasped softly. _Oh, Crowley,_ he thought. _If only I’d known sooner_

“Angel?” Aziraphale was so caught up in his own thoughts, and so used to hearing Crowley’s voice in his head, that he didn’t realize it was actually Crowley until he looked up. 

“Crowley? Crowley!” he exclaimed, shoving the journal away like it was burning him.

Crowley’s mouth opened in shock. His eyebrows puckered in the center. He looked scared.

“Angel! Did you--” Crowley could barely get the words out. “You shouldn’t be here. Why--” 

Aziraphale had never seen Crowley this flustered before. He was always so smooth, so unflappable. It wasn’t natural. Of course, Aziraphale was also ashamed of himself. Not only had he been snooping, he had been caught doing it, which was infinitely worse.

“I- well, you weren’t home, and I- I left the biscuits on the table, and--” 

“Biscuits? What biscuits?” Crowley asked, arms spread. “Just--” He strode forward and ripped the journal from Aziraphale’s hands. 

“You left the door open,” Aziraphale cried. “So how was I supposed to know--”

“General socially accepted RULES, Angel! Ever heard of ‘em?” Crowley spoke in a loud tone but was avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. “You don’t just _go into people’s houses_ on a whim; you _knock_ , and if they aren’t there, _you leave_.”

“You come into my bookshop!” Aziraphale countered. 

“It’s a public space!”

“Well…” Aziraphale was running out of subpar reasons to pardon his behavior. “You left the journal just out in the open!”

“Because I never thought you’d come here and see it!” yelled Crowley. His tongue was forked and his eyes were slitted and yellow. A sheen of sweat was present on his forehead. He looked down. “Please go.”

“Crowley--”

“ _Go_ , Angel.” Crowley pointed at the door. Aziraphale’s mouth wavered, and closed. He got up to leave. 

“Crowley,” he said when he reached the doorway, turning to face the back of Crowley’s head. He took a deep breath. “The things you wrote? The feeling is mutual.”

Crowley became rigid. He slowly pivoted until he was facing Aziraphale. His face was a mask of indecipherable emotion. 

“The feeling’s- what now?” he asked. He looked almost pained, as if it was too good to be true and he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Aziraphale smiled gently. 

“It’s mutual, my dear.” Aziraphale studied Crowley as he strutted closer. He tried not to grin with self-satisfaction, as Crowley’s eyes were welled with tears and he didn’t want to risk ruining the moment with one of his stupid smiles. Crowley cupped his face. Aziraphale could see his reflection in his glassy, reptilian eyes. 

“Say it again,” Crowley whispered, clutching Aziraphale by his lapels.

“I love yo--” started Aziraphale, but was interrupted by a low growl from Crowley as he swept closer and pressed his mouth to his. 

Crowley’s lips were rough, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Aziraphale slowly grew accustomed to their feel on his own. And, oh, his _tongue_. Crowley had a certain awareness over it that Aziraphale guessed was from being a snake. 

Aziraphale’s hands had lingered, unsure of what to do, on Crowley’s arms, but soon Aziraphale found them wound in Crowley’s hair and stroking his neck. Crowley’s hands remained gripping Aziraphale’s lapels, doing it so tightly as if he was afraid to let him go. 

They were pressed together as close as humanly (and inhumanly) as possible, but they longed to be closer. Aziraphale soon slid his hands under Crowley’s jacket and felt his formed back muscles and sharp shoulder blades. Crowley shivered and shrugged off the jacket, barely pausing to toss it on the ground before winding his arms tightly around Aziraphale. 

Crowley stumbled backwards and sank into a leather bench at the foot of his bed, pulling Aziraphale with him. Aziraphale’s jacket and bowtie were also abandoned, and Crowley started to unbutton his waistcoat. It was rather hard, as Aziraphale had grabbed him by his tie and placed a hand under his chin, keeping their lips together. 

After his fingers had finished fumbling with the waistcoat buttons, they found their way up Aziraphale’s soft form. Crowley had finally moved his mouth away from Aziraphale’s and now planted his kisses right along his jawline. His skin there was especially soft, and Crowley couldn’t resist taking the occasional gentle nibble. He relished the satisfied noises Aziraphale would make in the back of his throat. 

Aziraphale buried his face in the side of Crowley’s head and inhaled his scent deeply. He smelled of the rain and salt and alcohol with a hint of subtle cologne. 

Crowley reached a hand behind him and tried to hoist himself up on the bed, but found himself still under Aziraphale’s weight. Aziraphale sensed what he was trying to do and got off him, scooped Crowley up, and slid onto the neatly pressed sheets and covers with Crowley draped in his arms. He leaned down and kissed him tenderly. 

Crowley’s face was flushed and his chest rose and fell quickly. His eyes were bright.

“Angel--” he started, gasping. “I never--” 

Aziraphale smiled coyly and cut Crowley off with another kiss, covering his mouth completely with his own. Crowley moaned into Aziraphale and slithered his hands beneath his shirt, which was already hanging quite loosely, staying closed because of a few small buttons. His golden curls were disheveled, but he looked entirely perfect to Crowley.

Crowley, meanwhile, still had his necktie _and_ shirt on, and Aziraphale felt the need to do something about it. Not wanting to break his touch and focus, he gave a snap and miracled them away, having them reappear neatly folded on a nearby chair. 

A laugh rumbled in Crowley’s chest. “Did you just miracle my shirt away?”

“I might’ve.” Aziraphale looked sheepishly away, and then turned back, the passion in his expression multiplied. He moved predatorily over Crowley and pushed him back onto the mountain of throw pillows. And then, he did what Crowley least wanted him to do. He paused, as if he had suddenly realized what exactly they were doing. 

“What is it? What’s wrong, Angel?” Crowley asked, worried. He propped himself up on his angular elbows. 

“Are you sure you want this, Crowley?” Aziraphale glanced away, obviously nervous. He fiddled with a tassel on the corner of one of the pillows. 

Crowley scoffed. “What kind of a stupid question is that, Angel? _Do_ _I want this_? You read the journal, you tell me.”

Aziraphale looked worried. “I don’t know… I just think...”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Wait, do you not want to do this? Because we don’t have to. Things can go back to the way they were before. I promise. I understand. I’ll just--”

“Crowley! I _don’t_ want things to go back to the way they were. I just- don’t want to be the reason it all falls apart. What if you decide I’m not good, or I’m not enough, or--”

“That’s what this is about? For Satan’s sake, Angel, you can be awfully thick sometimes. Of course you won’t muck it up. Love like this…” Crowley’s voice grew soft. “It doesn’t just fade in a day.”

“Are you certain, dear?” Aziraphale looked up with misty eyes, and Crowley’s heart melted. 

“I’ve waited six thousand years for this, Angel,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear as he rested his arms loosely on his shoulders. “I’ve never been more certain of _anything_ in my life.” 

Aziraphale gazed into Crowley’s eyes. Their noses touched, and their arms were slung over the other’s shoulders and clasped behind their heads. His legs were stradled around Crowley’s thin torso. He felt… safe. He smiled, and leaned in for another kiss. 

Crowley fell back into the pillows with a thump, Aziraphale following suit. The various embroideries on the decorative cushions scratched at his bare back, but he didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay for having Aziraphale on top of him.

Aziraphale’s kisses slowly moved from Crowley’s mouth to his jawline, and then down his throat onto his chest. Crowley felt his back arch and he gave an involuntary moan and shiver. Aziraphale planted his mouth lower and lower, until it lingered at Crowley’s waistband, and invitation and question all at once. 

Crowley gave a slight nod and soon, his pants had joined his shirt and tie on the chair in the corner. Aziraphale ran his hand along Crowley’s side and buried his face into his stomach.

Crowley’s thoughts were a mixture of _oh Satan it’s finally happening_ and what could only be described as mental keyboard smashes as Aziraphale caressed him. It was both heaven and hell on Earth, and Crowley didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, was completely lost in the moment. The only thing he knew was Crowley, Crowley, _Crowley_. The low rumble he could hear in Crowley’s throat as he kissed every inch of his cool skin he could find; the hard, bony planes of his chest; the way Crowley’s olive eyes widened with every touch. Aziraphale felt he could stay this way forever, and wasn’t sure he would be able to leave. 

They eventually found solace wrapped around each other, Aziraphale hugging Crowley’s midsection and resting his head against his chest. Crowley was stroking Aziraphale’s hair gently. 

“Dear?” Aziraphale’s voice was foreign to his ears; he felt as if he had simultaneously ruined the moment and made it more tender. 

“Mmm?” was all Crowley replied.

“What does the J stand for, anyways?” Aziraphale asked, glancing up at Crowley’s face. 

“In my name?” Aziraphale nodded. “Well… it’s just a J, really. I told you before.”

Aziraphale’s face fell, not noticeably, but enough for Crowley to place a finger under his chin and tilt his head up to face him. 

“But for you, Angel,” he whispered, “that J is anything you want it to be.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled as the corners of his mouth turned up. He nestled further into Crowley’s bare chest.

“I love you,” he said.

Crowley smiled. "Love you too, Angel.”


End file.
